


A Tree in Ann Arbor

by Topaz_Eyes



Category: A Tree Grows in Brooklyn - Betty Smith
Genre: 1910s, Bittersweet, Character Study, Coming of Age, Drama, Family, Gen, Gift Fic, Influenza, World War I, Yuletide, Yuletide 2010
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 20:49:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/141591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Topaz_Eyes/pseuds/Topaz_Eyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Francie experiences Ann Arbor, the end of the war, and comes to a life-changing decision.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Tree in Ann Arbor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bookwormsarah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bookwormsarah/gifts).



> Many heartfelt thanks to my betas, little_missmimi and nightdog_barks.

Francie Nolan, sixteen years old and freshly arrived from Brooklyn, stood in front of the entrance gates to the University of Michigan.

With her brand-new cabin trunk at her feet, she gazed, starry-eyed, at the new world before her. Ann Arbor! Francie was entranced by its very name. How romantic to learn the town had been named for its founder's wife! How in love the founder must have been, to immortalize her name so.

The town itself was small; only 18,000 people resided in all of Ann Arbor, whereas Williamsburg alone held more than ten times that. Yet the university was abuzz with life. The school was in the midst of a massive expansion; everywhere Francie turned, there seemed to be a new building scaffold raised.

Her own dormitory, the Martha Cook Residence Hall, was but a few years old. Coming from the tenements of Williamsburg, it was akin to living in a castle. She stopped in awe at the statue of Portia, standing above the grand archway into the building. Portia! Francie could not help but recall her seminal speech.

 _The quality of mercy is not strain'd.  
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven  
Upon the place beneath._

Simply entering the vestibule of the Hall took her breath away, as she passed by the Tudor screen and into to the corridor with its high-vaulted ceilings, oak panels, and marble floors, towards the sumptuous Red Room where all new students were received. Here, upperclassmen met them in small groups to take them on tours of the residence. They left their luggage in the room for porters to transfer to their dormitory rooms.

The Blue Room was a majestic living room, resplendent with blue and gold furnishings. Her entire Williamsburg flat could have fit into it twice, with room to spare. The oak-paneled dining room had a high beamed ceiling, which, she learned, was patterned after the fifteenth century. It housed several round dining tables, where all meals would be served, including formal Friday teas.

To the east of the building sat the empty Condon home with its beautiful garden, and it was this garden that thrilled Francie most of all. She had never seen a real magnolia, nor a locust tree for herself; only ever in books, or through Johnny's songs. She thought she would spend many calm evenings on the cement terrace overlooking the garden, reading, writing or simply thinking.

Upstairs were the dormitory rooms proper. Francie resided on the third floor, in a suite arrangement with four other girls. For the first time in her life, she had her own room; it was spare, but beautiful, with burnished wood furniture. Upon moving in, she hung her crucifix and her Confirmation picture up on the wall, placed her modest selection of clothes in the dresser and her cabin trunk in the corner. When done that, she sat on the edge of the mattress. Excepting summers and holidays, this would be her home for the next four years. She trembled wildly at the thought.

Francie gladly accepted the moniker of 'Cookie,' which residents of the hall were nicknamed. She grew to be friendly with the girls in her suite, especially Helen and Margaret, whose rooms bordered hers. Helen was tall and big-boned, with yellow hair and a wide, plain face. Margaret was short and plump, with a pert, turned-up nose and doe-like eyes. They would, in time, become her first true women friends.

The next day she registered for classes. Thanks to her summer college courses, she was already halfway through her first year. She elected to study microbiology, 19th century American literature and poetry to round out her freshman curriculum. Then she would start her sophomore year in January. From her summer college experience she expected large lecture halls with at least a hundred students per class. Instead, Ann Arbor held smaller classes, called seminars, which held about forty students, the size of those in her former public school.

Microbiology, like chemistry before it, was a new world. Francie came away from her first lecture enthralled that a whole universe, visible only by microscope, existed. Here she was introduced to the novel vocabulary of cells: nucleus and chloroplast, mitochondria and cell walls. She learned that every living creature was comprised of these tiny units. She would learn to operate a microscope and observe these tiny, amazing entities for herself. Her 19th century literature class would cover both old, beloved authors like Alcott and Poe, and new ones like Twain. Poetry would discuss the greats from Shakespeare to Alfred, Lord Tennyson. She came away from all these classes with her thoughts swirling, and she couldn't wait to delve deeper.

Soberly, the war was never far away from Francie's consciousness. In September 1918, almost every male student on campus was a member of the Student Army Training Corps. The grounds swarmed with over three thousand men in khaki, and new enlistees arrived every day. On her way to and from seminars or the library, it was not uncommon for Francie to witness lines of recruits performing military drills on the lawn in front of the brand-new Michigan Union building. Francie could not help but think of Lee when she saw these soldiers in training. (Though the memory of him no longer caused a sharp stab in her heart, just a dull, reflective ache.)

Francie soaked all of this in. She recounted all of these things in her letters to Katie and Ben and vowed to study hard to make them proud. And she rejoiced, that she had this spectacular opportunity where none had existed before.

 

*****

Yes, Francie adored Ann Arbor, her fellow students, her professors, and her classes. But there was one terrible fly in the ointment, one which would shape the rest of her life.

In early September 1918, a fearsome influenza epidemic arrived in the United States. It had landed first in Boston, on troop ships freshly arrived from Europe. From there it ravaged the country like wildfire. The newspapers dubbed it the Spanish flu, as it seemed to first crop up in Spain. By the time it ended, five hundred thousand Americans, mostly those in the prime of their lives, would die from the pneumonia that too often followed it: their faces dark blue, hungering for air, they would drown in their own fluids waterlogging the lungs.

The disease reached Ann Arbor in early October, just a week after Francie arrived on campus. The first cases occurred among the recruits of the SATC. Within days hundreds fell ill, and some began to die. Francie worried if she shouldn't return to New York to be with her family. She wrote to Ben and Katie; both replied, insisting that she remain in Ann Arbor. Katie wrote, in her practical, backhand slant, that it wouldn't change anything whether she were home or not. She was better off remaining in Michigan where the epidemic hadn't hit so hard.

(Katie, too, was terrified, because the flu was taking a dire toll in New York. To her credit, Francie wrote back immediately, offering to host the family in Ann Arbor until the epidemic passed. Katie declined. McShane was Assemblyman for Queens, and would not leave during this crisis; and Katie would not leave her husband. She was sorely tempted to send Neeley and Laurie, until she realized how unfair it was to put that burden on her daughter. No, Francie's life was her own now, Katie decided; besides, Katie could not bear to have the younger two children far from her side should the unthinkable happen. None of these agonized thoughts ever made it into her correspondence.)

Ben, writing from his own university, agreed with Katie's sensible advice, and added that the University, with its lectures and societies, would afford her more to do than sit around and wait. Even if Francie went back to New York, he added, she would likely be homebound until the epidemic ended. No, she should stay until the epidemic finished its course. He added, with a confident flourish, that he would see her again at Christmas.

So Francie stayed. Ann Arbor did not send its students home, but it did enact quarantine measures. The Union, previously a barracks and mess hall, became an infirmary as did other buildings on campus. At first, classes remained in session, though they grew increasingly sparse as more students fell ill. From October 16th to early November, all public gatherings were canceled in both the city and the University. Churches, auditoriums, theaters, dance halls and schools shut down. Mr. Hutchins, the president of the University, decreed that masks were to be worn by all students and faculty at all times, on campus and off. They were to be worn even in the dormitories--everywhere except in one's own room. Not to do so meant an automatic suspension.

Every Cookie was issued white gauze masks by the dormitory matron. The masks unnerved Francie. For one who reveled in watching people and their expressions, it was as if the mask blotted out the entire bottom half of the wearer's face. The fabric was porous enough, but it muffled her already-soft voice to the point people couldn't hear her clearly. Eating was a chore; residents were not allowed to take trays into their rooms, so she had to learn how to eat with the mask on, passing the food underneath. The worst was that she couldn't breathe easily through it and she became lightheaded soon after she donned one. But she did not want to become sick; more, she did not want to endure the shame of dismissal from college. She wore the mask, and prayed every day it would be over.

 

*****

When Francie was not attending classes or writing papers, she sewed gauze masks.

The residence dining room was transformed into a mask factory. A floor matron cut ten to twelve-inch wide strips from a bolt of white gauze. These strips were passed down the table, where students cut them into rectangles six or seven inches long. One group of students cut these strips into six-or-seven-inch rectangles and hemmed them, each hem a quarter-inch wide, leaving the corners open.

A second group made strings for the masks. Another matron cut fifteen-inch swatches from a second bolt of gauze; students cut them further into one-inch wide strips and hemmed them on three sides. A third group assembled the masks, sewing four strings securely onto each corner of the rectangles. Finished masks were finally packed into boxes and sent to the makeshift infirmaries on campus. Every Cookie was expected to contribute, because they needed hundreds of masks a day just to keep up.

Francie sat at one of the rectangle-hemming tables with Helen and Margaret and three other girls. It was very much like her first job as a stemmer in the paper flower factory, except that this work was quiet. The girls themselves wore masks as they stitched, so talking was somewhat muffled. To break the tedium and ease the relative silence, some of the girls took turns playing the piano. Francie listened to the songs and hummed along as she folded the edge of the fabric over, finger-pressed the fold, gathered the fabric along the needle shaft, and pulled the thread through, one-two-three-four, over and over again.

"Gosh, Francie, you're good at this," Helen said after a while.

Francie startled and looked up. "Oh?"

"It's like you've done this kind of work before," Margaret added.

Francie bowed her head, and deftly picked up a raw fabric rectangle in her left hand. "It's easy once you get a rhythm to it," she demurred.

For once she was grateful she wore a mask so they could not see her cheeks flame with embarrassment. Foolishly, she had not told them about her past. She had said her stepfather was a New York State Assemblyman from Queens, which was true, and she'd left it at that. She doubted her roommates would grasp what it meant to have come from the tenements of Williamsburg. Helen's father was a lawyer in Flint, Michigan, and Margaret's owned a small savings-and-loan in Toledo, Ohio.

And why should they understand? she thought wryly. To them, poverty was just a word in the dictionary. Miss Garnder, her eighth grade English teacher, never understood. Francie bristled at the memory. These girls, on some level, were like Miss Garnder--

She checked herself at that. She was not ashamed of her Brooklyn roots. Mother would rightly call this attitude 'putting on airs.' That's what she should be ashamed of, not her past. Let them judge her, she thought defiantly, let them avoid her after this. So she looked up. The girls peered at her avidly.

"My first job was in a paper flower factory in Brooklyn," she said plainly.

Francie focused on her work again, so she did not see the glances Helen and Margaret exchanged. She carried on, stubbornly finishing one rectangle and starting another. But Helen cleared her throat.

"What was it like?" she ventured.

Francie steeled herself, and met their combined gazes. To her shock, there was no judgment there, only curiosity. The other girls were listening, too.

"We made roses," she said. "A dozen of us sat at a long table..."

The girls hung onto every word. As she spoke, Francie felt a huge weight lift off her shoulders. These girls accepted her. Rich or poor, they all shared in this experience. It was a wonderful feeling, to know that she truly belonged somewhere, and that somewhere was here.

The flu eventually came to Martha Cook Hall at the beginning of November. It was like a bony finger descending, that struck down its victims with a vengeance. And it was terribly swift, too: a Cookie could wake up perfectly healthy in the morning, and shiver and gasp for air by suppertime.

Within three days, fully a quarter of the residence was ill in bed. Helen and Margaret fell sick, but Francie escaped. She nursed them, and other ill students as well, for there were no other nurses available. For the next week or so, Francie worked sixteen hours a day. She bustled between the second and third floors, bathed sweating, burning faces, changed dirty bed linens, and held glasses of water to sip. Day after day she did these things non-stop, until she toppled into bed herself for a few scant hours of restless sleep.

By the time the flu finished making its rounds on campus in early November, about one-third of the University population had fallen ill, fifty-nine men in the SATC had died, and Francie was exhausted. She could not even celebrate when Mr. Hutchins lifted the quarantine restrictions; she simply burst into tears on hearing the news. She managed to gather enough strength to write to Ben and ask how he was doing. She then collapsed into bed, and slept for a very long time.

 

*****

On November 11, Francie startled awake at 3 in the morning upon hearing the piercing whistle from the university's power plant. Seconds later there was an excited pounding at her bedroom door.

"Francie! Francie, wake up!" Margaret shouted.

"The war's over, Francie!" Helen added.

"What?"

Francie jumped out of bed and ran into the hallway. Still in their nightgowns, the girls flew to the window at the end of their suite, the window which faced north towards Main Street, and saw the unmistakable red-gold glow of a giant bonfire to the west.

She threw open the window sash and heard the joyous peal of the courthouse bell.

"It's over!" Francie whispered. "It's true, it's really over!"

She unselfconsciously embraced both girls. They rushed back to their rooms and hurriedly dressed, than ran pell-mell through the marble corridors to the outside, where the other Cookies milled, all of them chatting and laughing and weeping in joy.

They headed en masse straight to the roaring bonfire at Main and Huron. Students and soldiers poured out from every dormitory, fraternity house and barracks, many with coats hastily thrown over their pajamas. The entire crowd formed a circle around the bonfire. Helen and Margaret stood on either side of her and she felt their arms link with hers. They swayed back and forth, singing:

 _O! say can you see,  
By the dawn's early light..._

Francie joined in, letting the victory song wash over her, and forgot, briefly, the exhaustion and sadness of the epidemic which had ended only days ago.

After a few minutes of singing, however, she felt oddly pensive. She disengaged from the group and stood closer to the heat and flame. She needed to commemorate this occasion, cement each little detail in her mind, never to forget. The pungent scent of the bonfire wafted on the cool morning air. Francie turned her face upwards and breathed in deeply, felt the heat caress her cheeks. She tasted the slightly acrid tang in the air, shivered in the pre-dawn breeze which whipped small flakes of ash into eddies at her feet. She listened to each crackle, the hissing of wet wood as steam escaped, the chorus of voices around her which chanted hymns of jubilation. She memorized each lick of flame reaching for the sky: beginning with the white-yellow heat closest to the bottom of the pile of wood, streaming to orange and then red. She closed her eyes, and imagined the fire burning away the old remnants of war and disease and death, so a new world, like the phoenix, could rise from its ashes.

When she opened her eyes, she suddenly wondered what this new world would hold in store.

 

*****

Two days before Thanksgiving, Francie arrived at the Grand Central Terminal on the Wolverine train.

She had not planned to return to New York until Christmas, but influenza had disrupted life in Ann Arbor so thoroughly that she decided to return home for Thanksgiving too. She had telephoned McShane, who arranged for her train tickets. (She had hoped Ben would also make the trip, perhaps even join her in Detroit so they could ride the train together. But, ever practical, he was sticking to his Christmas plans. Francie was disappointed--he had contracted the flu, so she needed to see him, to convince herself he was all right. Still, she said nothing.)

And so, after leaving Ann Arbor on the evening train and traveling overnight, she disembarked and stood on the platform.

The station was approximately one-quarter-full of holiday travelers. Though the epidemic was officially declared over, most people still avoided travel if they could. Of those who dared, most still wore gauze masks, as many conductors otherwise refused passengers boarding a train without one. Francie, wearing a mask herself, retrieved her carpetbag and looked round for Neeley, who was to meet her and take her home.

She made her way into the main terminal, not seeing him until she saw a motion out of the corner of her eye. Turning, she saw him jumping and waving from the far end of the station by the exit.

He rushed over, picked her up and swung her in the air with glee.

"Hey, Prima Donna!"

"Neeley!"

Above the mask, his eyes crinkled with mirth. He set her down and picked up her carpetbag. "Come on, the car's waiting."

"The car?"

"Oh, yeah. You should see it." And when they exited, a sleek, black Nelson roadster was parked out front of the station waiting for them.

"It's Dad's from the office. He sent it for you. It's easier than carrying your bags on the El," Neeley explained, setting the carpetbag on the floor of the front. "Safer, too."

They climbed inside, sat in the back, and the uniformed driver pulled away from the curb. Neeley removed his mask. Francie removed hers too, grateful to be free from the horrid thing. The car pulled smoothly through the Manhattan streets towards the Queensboro bridge.

Francie stared out the window of the cab. Now, thanks to measures imposed by the Board of Health, New York was all but a ghost town. Only a handful of pedestrians were out and about, most wearing masks, all minding their own business. Influenza had burnt its way once through the city and had left thousands dead in its wake. In her family, almost everyone had caught it, but of all the assorted Nolans, Rommelys and McShanes, only Uncle Willie Flittman had died from it. Flittman the one-man band had entertained the crowd at the Armistice Day celebrations. He had sickened and passed away two days later.

About half an hour later, the car arrived at Francie's new place of residence in Queens.

How the Nolan fortunes had changed! Mother and McShane lived in Woodside, on a street very much like Bushwick Avenue in Brooklyn, the very avenue she and Neeley had visited with Johnny all those years ago. She had stayed at this house for one night before she left, but the whirlwind of Katie's marriage and her travel to Ann Arbor had meant Francie could not investigate it thoroughly. Now, she studied it more closely. It was one of the more modest houses on the street, brick with two floors, a wide front porch and a tidy, manicured lawn. A low brick wall separated the property from the sidewalk; a wrought-iron gate sat between two taller brick posts. The driver dropped them off here. Francie and Neeley passed through the gates, and traipsed up the flagstone sidewalk to the mahogany front door.

Francie spied Katie at the window, watching them approach; Katie opened the door for them and stood at the threshold.

Francie smiled. "Hello, Mother."

Katie stepped forward and embraced Francie, and kissed her on the forehead. She then pulled back, her hands still on Francie's upper arms, and inspected her up and down.

"I'm glad you're home, Francie."

"Me too."

Katie had grown a little stouter, the way Aunt Sissy had after she got Little Sissy. Of course, she did not have to clean three tenement buildings anymore. (Francie wondered if Mother had got her own maid, if McShane insisted on having one. But she only ever saw Katie, McShane, Neeley, Laurie and herself in the house the whole time she visited.) Other than that, she did not look like she'd changed on the surface: she was as strong, capable, and quick as ever.

Francie observed a small blur of movement behind Katie. She tilted her head, and Laurie peeked around Katie's skirts.

"Hello, Laurie!" Francie said.

Laurie didn't appear to recognize her sister at first. Two months was a very long time in a small child's life. Perhaps Laurie had already forgotten who she was, Francie thought sadly. But then Laurie ran to her, clasped her knees and shrieked, "Frannie, Frannie!"

Francie picked up the girl and kissed her cheek. Laurie, two-and-a-half years old, had sprouted while Francie was away. Already she stood as tall as the umbrella stand by the door. Such a pretty little girl, with Katie's black, curling hair, round apple cheeks and bright, brown eyes. She wore a well-made blue gingham dress with a starched white pinafore, and a matching ribbon tied back her curling hair; clothes finer than Francie could remember.

Francie set Laurie down; Laurie skipped around the house, singing in her high, sweet baby voice, alternating between "Frannie's home! Frannie's home!" and a poignant street rhyme:

 _I had a little bird,  
Its name was Enza.  
I opened up the window  
And in-flu-enza._

Katie and Francie looked at each other.

"Come, you must be tired," Katie said. "Let's sit down and have a cup of coffee."

Francie followed Katie past the grand parlor and dining room, into the kitchen towards the back. There, Katie bustled around fixing coffee and setting out sweet buns. The kitchen, airy and bright, was more than twice the size of the one they had in Williamsburg. The stove and icebox were new. There seemed to be rows and rows of cupboards.

After two months away, Francie felt awkward, a guest in her own home.

"Can I help, Mother?"

"It's all right, I have everything here." She set a white china carafe of steaming coffee, a matching cream-and-sugar set, mugs, spoons and a plate of buns on a sturdy serving tray, and took it out to the dining room table.

The dining room was vast, with a vaulted ceiling and green velvet drapes tied back. Francie reached the mahogany-finished table and sat in a high-back chair with a brown floral upholstered seat. She ran her fingers on the green damask tablecloth while Katie poured the coffee and set a mug in front of her. Francie added cream and sugar, and brought it up to her nose. It smelled delicious, if no longer the hearty, chicory-fortified coffee of her girlhood. Francie next took a bun and bit into it. The bun was warm and fresh and did not need to be dipped into the coffee to soften it.

Katie folded her hands in front of her, leaving her own coffee untouched. She, too, seemed ill at ease.

"Now tell me everything about Michigan."

Francie felt tongue-tied. There should have been plenty to say. Francie could be garrulous to a fault. But she couldn't find the words. After a long moment of searching she said, "I wrote about everything in my letters, Mother."

"Of course you did."

Katie sounded disappointed. Francie concentrated on drinking her coffee. It was rich, with a faint hint of chocolate. In Williamsburg, coffee was the one little luxury she was allowed to waste. For the first time in her life she felt obliged to finish the whole cup. The coffee sat heavy and unfamiliar in her stomach.

Laurie ran into the dining room and clambered onto Katie's lap. Katie let her have half of her sweet bun.

"How are Aunt Evy and Aunt Sissy?" Francie asked finally.

Katie told her. With the war over, the munitions plant where Evy and Uncle Steve worked was converting to an assembly plant to make parts for automobiles. Evy would stay on, and promoted to assistant forewoman. Sissy had taken in three orphan neighbor children who'd lost their parents to influenza. Everyone, it seemed, had achieved their happy endings, Francie thought.

At that point Neeley came in, and helped himself to three buns on his way upstairs to change for the theater. Katie watched him come and go with a loving expression, one that Francie had only rarely seen directed toward herself. Katie had always favored Neeley, and Francie accepted that fact long ago. But now she wondered how just two months away could change everything between them.

Katie, as always, seemed to know exactly what her daughter was thinking. "This is your home too, Francie," Katie said.

"I know," Francie replied.

Yet in their hearts they both knew differently, and that knowledge weighed heavily on her.

 

*****

At exactly seven o'clock, McShane arrived home from his office.

Laurie, by now fed, bathed and dressed in a white flannel nightgown, played with Francie and her doll in the parlor window seat, until they heard the motorcab stop at the curb. McShane climbed out of the cab and walked up the sidewalk. Laurie rushed to the front door, waiting for the door to open. When it did, she flew into his open arms.

"Papa!" Laurie shrieked.

She flung her plump baby arms around McShane's neck, and his eyes lit up. He gathered her close and pressed her to his breast. "Ah, Laurie me love."

Witnessing this tableau for the first time, Francie choked down the lump that formed in her throat. She couldn't help but feel a mean twinge of jealousy towards her baby sister.

Ashamed of herself, Francie squelched it quickly. She was sixteen-going-on-seventeen, a full-grown woman, and she'd had a living papa for fourteen years. If Mother hadn't re-married, Laurie might never have known any papa at all.

Meanwhile, Laurie wriggled in his embrace. "Papa, papa, Frannie's home!" She pointed at Francie. "Frannie's home!"

At that, Francie shyly stepped up to him. "Hello, Mr. McShane." She proffered her hand.

He shifted Laurie onto his hip and shook Francie's hand profusely. "Welcome home, me girl. And did you have a fine trip back on the train?"

"Yes, sir."

"There's splendid for you."

Katie stepped out from the dining room. "Hello, Michael."

At the sight of his wife, McShane's tired face lit up even more. "Ah, Katherine. A sight for sore eyes."

Katie beamed at the compliment. "Dinner's ready and waiting," she said, "once Laurie's in bed."

She retreated to the dining room. McShane set Laurie down to remove his overcoat and shoes; Laurie fetched up a pair of blue carpet slippers from beside the umbrella.

"Here, Papa."

"Thank you," he said. He squatted to her level and placed his massive hand on her tiny shoulder. "And ye'll be off to bed now, me love," he added. "Are ye ready?"

McShane, it seemed, was in charge of putting Laurie to bed. Laurie grabbed Francie's hand. "Can Frannie put me to bed tonight?"

"I can't see why not," he said amiably, "but shouldn't ye be askin' her first?"

"Of course I will, Laurie," Francie said quickly. "Say goodnight to--"

 _Say goodnight to Papa._ But she could not finish. Luckily, Laurie didn't notice. "Night, papa!"

McShane regarded Francie with a sad, thoughtful look. To Laurie he said, "Sweet dreams, child," and kissed the top of her head.

Francie took Laurie upstairs to her nursery. She sat with the child in a high-backed rocker near the window, across from the door. A small night table stood beside, whereupon sat two brand-new books: a blue-clad Gideon Bible, and a handsome, brown-velvet-covered copy of _The Complete Works of Wm. Shakespeare._ Both books had green paper bookmarks marking the pages to be read.

Francie smiled: Annie Laurie McShane would grow up knowing one Nolan tradition, at least. She read the marked page from each book out loud. Laurie curled in Francie's lap, eyelids drooping, her thumb firmly in her bow-shaped mouth. When she finished, Laurie was very nearly asleep. Francie sat rocking her for awhile, until she heard the child's soft snores, then hoisted her and tucked her into her crib. Laurie did not stir. She left the room and closed the door with a soft click.

Francie had left for Ann Arbor the same day the movers picked up their belongings. While she was away, Katie had fixed up her bedroom. Francie now approached the second doorway on the left side of the hall. She took a deep breath, opened the door to her new bedroom and viewed it for the first time.

The walls were covered with paper very much like in their old flat, except the stripes were beige and pink, not dark brown and gold. The lovely green carpet with the cabbage-sized pink roses graced the middle of the polished oak floor. The cream lace curtains adorned the window--the window was so big that all four curtains hung there. The little piano, its black wood gleaming, waited in the corner, with fresh white candles in the candle-holders and the stool pulled out, as if it were waiting for her to sit down and play.

Her bed was brand new, as was the bedspread, cream with shirred pink ribbons that matched the roses in the carpet. A flouncy, cream bedskirt brushed the floor. A dresser table sat across, its wide, circular mirror reflecting everything in the room. A dresser set--comb, brush and hand mirror, the handles crafted of fine mother-of-pearl--lay on the starched cream table mat. And a small, cherry-wood rolltop desk sat in front of her window.

There was nary a speck of dust on anything. Francie felt a headache coming on. First Michigan, the motorcab, now this... it felt like a dream. She remembered the ill-fated book she'd attempted to write in eighth grade. This beautiful room--this entire life--seemed more fit for Sherry Nola than it did for her.

A voice boomed over her left shoulder. "Do you like it, now?"

Suddenly awkward, she turned and looked up into McShane's eyes. She swallowed. "Yes, sir," she said, "it's a wonderful room. Thank you."

"You're very welcome."

But McShane seemed to expect something more from her. When she didn't answer further, he gave her another long, sad look. "It's all right, me girl," he added. "I won't be asking for what ye cannot give." He patted her shoulder and went down the hall, stopping at Laurie's door to peek in on the baby.

She entered the fabulous room and sat on the edge of the bed with its comfortable mattress. She missed Papa, her Papa, so much. She could not be angry at McShane, for he was a good man who'd waited many years for happiness. But as much as she was grateful to him, he could never be anything but Mr. McShane to her.

This realization raised another important question.

She could not raise it with Katie, and certainly not with McShane. So she raised it with Neeley while they sat together in the parlor the next day. Neeley was poring over a textbook. Francie was mending a pair of silk stockings which had snagged on her carpetbag and torn near the seam.

"Neeley, do you think Mother and McShane will have a child together?"

"How should I know?" Neeley shrugged, not looking up from his text. "Whatever Mama and Dad do is up to them."

"Of course it is, but--"

Neeley looked up from his history textbook. "It isn't fair that Laurie grow up by herself," he added. "You're away at college and I'm gonna go in a couple years. So why not?"

Mother was still young enough, she reflected; Aunt Sissy was thirty-seven when she had Stevie. And Mother would have a second family which would never want for anything the way she and Neeley had. Plus, most of McShane's own children were dead. Of course he would want another child, or perhaps even two with Katie. Francie could not begrudge them their reward.

The next question tumbled out before Francie could think about it.

"Do you think Mother is happy?"

Neeley shot her a surprised look. "Of course she is. Geez, Francie, you have strange questions."

Francie wondered if Katie harbored such feelings, but dared not ask. This was the successful life she had worked so hard for, after all. Mother seemed to be perfectly content. Yet a couple of times since she'd returned, Francie had witnessed Katie sit at the dining room table, hands quietly folded in her lap, and look around the room with a heavy sigh, as if she were thinking 'now what?' And she had never known her mother to be still. So she had to wonder.

Even Neeley had changed in the two short months she'd been away. He seemed more thoughtful, less carefree. Part of it might have been the toll influenza had taken on his pals; part of it might have been their change in fortune; or maybe Neeley decided he owed it to McShane to work hard and make something of himself. It didn't matter. Neeley, who'd only ever gotten passing grades in school, had turned to the books with newfound zeal.

Well, Mother had always planned for Neeley to be a doctor. Francie had secretly doubted that, because, like Papa, Neeley adored music and singing. He was an expert jazz and ragtime pianist, and he knew all the best theaters. She thought he would break into show business. But watching him frown over a passage in his history text--and take notes!--Francie decided that yes, he would most certainly become a doctor, as Mother had always wanted.

The thought inexplicably saddened her. Did only she nurture any sense of Johnny now?

And with a start, she realized she had not visited Johnny's grave since he had been buried, almost three years ago now. Francie felt a pang of guilt at the thought of her neglect. She ought to rectify it before she returned to Ann Arbor, and resolved to visit tomorrow.

 

*****

On Thanksgiving Day, Francie stood at the foot of Johnny's grave.

McShane had offered her the use of the car and driver, but Francie elected to go alone, taking the trolley from Woodside Station, changing at Greenpoint and then into Williamsburg. She went straight to the cemetery; she had no desire to visit the old neighborhood. She had said her goodbyes in September.

The day of Johnny's funeral, only three days past Christmas, had been gray and cold. Today was just as cold, but the November sun shone down, casting Francie's shadow over the small headstone. The cemetery had filled up quickly in the past few months. The enduring scar of influenza on the earth: hundreds of graves with freshly-turned soil. Most did not have any sort of marker.

Neither had Johnny's, until Katie had the simple granite stone installed, just after she remarried. It was engraved with the cross, and the words 'John Nolan, 1881-1915.' Nothing else, not even 'Loving Husband and Father,' because Katie was not sentimental like that.

Papa, papa.

Francie genuflected for a moment, whispering a short prayer for Johnny's soul. She then knelt on the frozen ground and relayed everything that had happened to her since she'd left Brooklyn. She talked and talked, whispering to the headstone until she was hoarse. Her knees hurt from the grit on the cold ground, and she shivered in the wind, but she felt more comfortable here at papa's graveside than back at the house.

"Ann Arbor is everything you dreamed, papa," she finished, "and yes, even better. How I wish you could see for yourself. How you would have loved the magnolia trees outside my window."

She patted the headstone, her hand lingering on its glass-smooth surface. She thought of how everyone else in her family had moved on from Johnny. Yes, even she had. How it was meant to be.

"Goodbye, papa," she said. She knew in her heart she would never come back here again.

She wended her way back onto the gravel path, deep in thought, wondering how Ben was doing. But on her way to the gate, Francie paused, struck by a sudden revelation.

Ben was her McShane.

It was so obvious that she did not know why she'd not seen it before. Ben Blake was ambitious. He was solid, and steadfast, and indefatigable. He knew what he wanted, where he wanted to go and how he would get there. Each step in his life was laid out in an unwavering, rigid line, with no room for error.

She glanced back at papa's headstone. Lee had been her Johnny, she thought wistfully. Only ever a daydreamer, with his head firmly in the clouds and no sense of how to make the dream come true. (Lee was dead now, she was certain; felled in battle, or by influenza. Either way it didn't matter. That was how drifters always ended.)

Yes, Lee had had no sense, while Ben had too much. Whereas she, Francie, was both idealist and realist. There could be both romance and reality; there had to be both, for her life to be truly complete. Ben was a good man, and she would always be grateful for his kindness as she was for McShane's, but Francie Nolan could never settle for being simply content.

Francie twirled Ben's high school ring on her finger. A promise ring. Five years, he said, until she was old enough to know her own mind. Well. She was only sixteen, but she knew her mind as well as Ben knew his. She did not need to wait five years; she could tell Ben now. Yes. She would tell him at Christmas when she saw him again.

Her spine stiffened. No, she thought, she would mail the ring back as soon as she got home.

Though not when she got back to Queens--that house belonged to Katie and McShane, Neeley and Laurie. Francie carried her home in her own heart, made it from her own hands: first Williamsburg, now Ann Arbor. Wherever it was, she would shape it herself.

With that thought, she strode out of the cemetery, ready to meet her future.


End file.
